Not How It Happened
by scruffyreader7
Summary: How it should have worked: Rose going down to breakfast after a night of filling out prefect schedules. Al and Scor would sit together and he'd have said "She doesn't know it but she's sexy," and she would've gone on her date. But its not how it happened.


It was, oh, half past eleven when they finally gave up. There was too much to do, too many papers-with a mutual pact to wake at four to finish the work, Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy sagged into their respective chairs. Hers was a low backed loveseat. His didn't suit him, she noticed lazily, and yet it did. It was one of those saggy, cushiony chairs that had those funny wings at the top she didn't know the name for, and it had some strange beige flower pattern and he lounged lazily against the grandmother-like furniture. It made him look a little more clean cut, a bit more like a displaced rock star. How Scorpius Weasley had managed to follow in the footsteps of his (admittedly distant) cousin as the next rock idol of Hogwarts and still maintain that Malfoy sneer, those black button-ups that only he wore, that image as something a little more, when the two were completely different. Rose knew Teddy, he was forever hanging around Cousin Albus's (the Potter children actually behaved when he was around, a rare fact in itself) and Ted reminded her of her Uncle Bill. His hair was never quite how anyone wanted it. Aunt Ginny and Grandma Weasley and his stern-looking grandmother who he somehow got away with calling Andy were forever after him about his hair. Of course, once a year he'd change it to a respectful and natural black for Andromeda, and hold her hand in front of two graves that stood slightly away from everyone else's. A third was slightly nearby, allowing the two, now intermingled, families to grieve together over their lost Fred, Dora, and Remus. But Malfoy rarely had a thing out of place. His hair was nothing like his father's, a riper color and by far more unkempt but he kept it that way purely for the sex appeal, and it was an organized kind of disorganized. He wore shirts that were always rolled three quarters of the way up his corded forearms, not out of any show of a love of work (which came effortlessly to him) but because it was slightly new looking and fresh looking and hell, girls drooled over those arms alone. His smirk and sneer were his fathers in the extreme. Whenever Sev (well, most people called him albs but somehow Scorpius got away with calling him Sev, which he shouldn't have been because that was her name for him) brought Scorpius by-had Rose not mentioned that? Her cousin, who may as well have been her twin, was in cahoots with Malfoy. Apparently on that first day on platform 9 3/4 Rose's father had not imparted is wisdom in relation to the Malfoys as well to Sev as he had to Rose, within a fortnight the two were sneaking off in passages that had long since ceased to be secret-well, regardless of whether she had mentioned it, every time Sev DID bring Scorpius by, Rose's mother always remarked that he had inherited all of the things her father hated about Draco Malfoy except perhaps the malicious tendencies. Ron would remark that whatever those tendencies might be, you never knew until they surfaced.

Scorpius Malfoy didn't scowl, he didn't have scowls to waste on small things like how Wealey's tank buckled a little when she slouched. It rode down enough to show some curves (they were smallish but so was everything about the Weasel's first child, whenever he brought Albus and therefor Rose by (albs had the horrible position of being confidante to two good, but not best, friends), Draco wondered afterwords to his wife if that was some inherent trait in Ronald Weasley. If some genetic failing of his had caused the petitness of his daughter. Maybe he passed it on, he'd wonder, but It was light-hearted ex-schoolboy ribbing and there was no real anger there) and rode up on her midriff to reveal old Quidditch scars.

"Hmm?" She had been murmuring something, he was sure.

"Nothing. I don't really have time to be tired, though. Got a date with Jane Wenlock's older cousin. Rhys Housend." The corner of her mouth quirked upward for a moment and he noticed how it flattened out her lips a little, but then she blew out for a moment and those self same lips (not the colors of roses, he thought, she wore an almost plum color on her mouth) and he hated how he found the dimple that appeared and disappeared endearing.

If he had been tired before-fuck! Bloody hell, he wasn't now. "Rhys Housend! Thats low, Weasley. That's downright pathetic. That's what I call fishing."

"As I see it, you've spent the night making prefect schedules and you're really jealous that you can't even complain to some blonde moron tomorrow because I have a date and you haven't."

"Careful, Weasel, wouldn't want daddy to think you're-" he gasped and laid an elegant hand over his mouth (She liked his fingers. they were strong fingers, the kind of quidditch fingers that didn't crush a quill when they held it but could snap a broomstick without a second thought. She really didn't care about his fingers, they were ink stained because the fool persisted in a decidedly muggle tradition of PENS inherited from his mother and he used some brand cheap enough they burst continually in his bag. He wore one of those simple rings Albus was always denying he wanted. The stainless steel kind muggleborns liked, Merlin knew why. She really had no time to care one way or another about his fingers. Unless they were grasping a wand, of course, and then the would find themselves trapped mercilessly under her heel.) "-dating now do we? Its not that we don't trust you, midget, its that your father here was a moron at Hogwarts and has a well earned sense of caution."

She laughed a Weasley laugh. It made her annoyingly curly hair do some odd jig in the firelight and her head fell back against the cushions. He assumed she was tired enough to leave it there, she rolled her head over to the side to stare at him out of the corner of her eye.

He stared back for a moment, though. If either one saw the image (he in the chair comfy chair, straight backed, arms poised to shove off to bed but he wasn't quite there. he just sat at attention. She slouching on the couch in short plaid pajama pants and a tank top, head on the back of the couch, her brown eyes locked with his) they would have called it a moment in time, an odd second caught by film. But they wouldn't move, even in wizard pictures, because they sat like that for perhaps a whole half a minute before he decided it was utterly ridiculous. He shoved off from the chair, ruffled her hair for a moment on his way around the back of his couch and to his door. He stared at his hand for a moment, traitor, traitor, his brain thought. But he shook the feeling off and went for the handle. "You're a fool for taking the date Weasley. Good night."

She sat there until the clock chimed once and she jumped, and then it chimed again a half hour later and she went in to bed.

* * *

><p>Or that was how it should have worked. That was how it had worked time and time before, as Rose knew it should. If that had been what happened, she would have walked down to breakfast the next morning after running the fastest shower in the history of the universe and drying her hair with a charm, sat next to Albus, and laughed again at Scorpius's look of utter boredom and exhaustion as she pranced down the walk arm in arm with Rhys Housend who was nearly as short as she. She wouldn't know it but if that was how it had happened, Scorpius would have watched her go and whispered in Albus's ear, "She doesn't know it but she's sexy. Makes me want to run my hand up her leg"-<p>

And if that was how it had happened, Albus would have smacked his best friend up the back side of his head so hard he fell forward and his famous Malfoy mop of hair landed smack dab in the middle of a plate of scrambled eggs and his chin landed in a cup of yogurt.

But that wasn't how it happened. Not exactly; not nearly even close.

She laughed a Weasley laugh. It made her annoyingly curly hair do some odd jig in the firelight and her head fell back against the cushions. He assumed she was tired enough to leave it there, she rolled her head over to the side to stare at him out of the corner of her eye.

He stared back for a moment, though. If either one saw the image (he in the chair comfy chair, straight backed, arms poised to shove off to bed but he wasn't quite there. He just sat at attention. She slouched on the couch in short plaid pajama pants and a tank top, head on the back of the couch, her brown eyes locked with his) they would have called it a moment in time, an odd second caught by film. But they wouldn't move, even in wizard pictures, because they sat like that for perhaps a whole half a minute before he decided it was utterly ridiculous. He shoved off from the chair, ruffled her hair for a moment on his way around the back of his couch and to his door. Only she'd turned her face at the last minute and his hand landed on her face, that middle finger with the ring fell right on her lips, the rest of his digits rested on her skin. She didn't know why, she would never know perhaps other than that she had been watching those extremities in particular all night and was exhausted from watching them tracing the elegant curls of his cursive and they had just agreed to follow their brains to bed because they had long since abandoned them but she didn't know. She really really didn't understand why she kissed it for a moment. Lightly, she thought.

He brushed the hair off her face. His middle finger lingered on her mouth, his little finger ran across her temple (he didn't know but she was acutely aware of their presence and just how the hair on the back of her neck stood up at his touch) and down the side of her neck. With the most tempting sound he'd ever heard, she shivered, her neck sagged into his touch.

He had to stop this. Maybe if he apologized and didn't trip over his own feet on his way to his room he'd survive the night. If she didn't stop, if he-if he- he was very much aware of just how much he wanted her. His pants were very much aware. His heart wouldn't-his heart had nothing to do with it. It was carnal desire, that was all. He reasoned and counter reasoned with himself in the space of a second and Rose was stunned to find the Malfoy genius and heir very much determined, hesitant, and utterly silent.

"Hmm," she said, and turned her face into his hand again. (Did she know how erotic that was? No. Yes, she had to.)

"Rose-Rose, you have to stop that." He swallowed convulsively. Her head was still lying back on the couch, the locks of hair streaming out in all directions. From her vantage point she couldn't see the pain in his eyes. Only the way his throat looked-rather masculine, not that she was in the habit of studying male necks-and she wondered what that would be like to kiss. Softer than his fingers but he was also a Quidditch player and the pads of his fingers were not the soft tips one would imagine them to be holding a quill. He was a strange dichotomy, she decided. Or would have decided if her brain had been capable of thought. "Really rather not," she mumbled into his knuckles, vibrations traveled all the way up his arms.

"Weasley, I won't do this. This stops…" He inhaled, she pulled his whole finger into her mouth. She was doing it deliberately, had to be, he had to be dead. He must've been like Professor Binns, dropped off in the middle of the scheduling who was patrolling, hadn't noticed until Rose bloody phenomenal Weasley started fulfilling a particular fantasy he hadn't yet had. Or he was asleep and this was that fantasy in his dreams. He shuddered, flushed…Merlin she was… "This stops… right now." His breath came in great heaving gasps, he stopped trying to hide them.

Rose reached up behind her, her hand fisted in that up-til-now perfect black shirt and yanked him down. He pulled back, centimeters from her face and held the position. Grey eyes held brown and he gave up. If she walked away at that moment, he would have let her go and spent the night horrified and pleased he could have affected her in that way, so strongly. "No."

"Right," he muttered into her lips. Merlin, they were-he hadn't words. He'd spent since the beginning of term trying to discern what she would taste like. Not lavender, he knew, even though he could smell it on her hair. Nor mint, because she always turned Albus down when he offered one. Not chocolate, because no human in the world could taste like chocolate. She tasted like vanilla, like the sugary vanilla of cookies before they were baked. He found himself pulled around the edge of the Ravenclaw blue love seat and kneeling next to her. No, it was his fantasy, he was taking control. He pulled her flush against his chest, moved his lips to her neck, one hand held her neck against his lips and the other slipped down her back, lower and lower.

* * *

><p>She woke up, for once, before he did. Scorpius Malfoy was always awake early. He was always among the first thirty people in the Hall, unless he planned to make a grand entrance, swinging into the Great Hall with his arm around one of the 'flavors' he had deigned to make his girlfriend. He would spin her around to face him, her neck still in the crook of his arm, and languidly kiss her until her head was tilted as far back as it would go. It was pathetic, Rose had always thought. She would roll her eyes and ask Albus, while his best mate was on the way over to the table (his slowness was always calculated, always timed) if he could be any more conspicuous, any more conceited…She would roll her eyes and shake her head a little. The back of her ponytail would swing enough to brush past the line of her shoulders and she would smile a little. Because it was just so ridiculous.<p>

But that morning he was not punctual; he was not on time. His body (she had seen quite a bit of it the night before, and it was not unattractive) was half sprawled over hers, his head was buried fairly awkwardly in her chest and one of his legs was in between hers. Quite a bit of her hair was mixed in with his, his left arm, the one with an owl tattooed on his wrist, pulled her waist to his chest.

"Malfoy," Rose hissed, looking at the clock of moons and stars sitting on the bedside table, "Malfoy, wake up."

"Mmnno." Oh, Merlin. Oh, Merlin, he absolutely had to sit up. His voice was sending vibrations through her breastbone. "Mmmvry comfabble." He resettled his arm on her waist.

In her scariest, Hermione Granger-Weasley voice, Rose ordered, "MALFOY! Off!"

It didn't work. She sat up (she was a tiny thing, and he must have weighted over 81 kilos heavy [180 lbs, for those of us on a strange system] and he finally rolled over and gave the semblance of consciousness. "Don't. Go." He didn't beg, or order, or anything at all. He said the words with no intonation.

"Got to." It seemed theirs was to be a conversation of fewer than five words a reply. What was there to say, what could be said? If there was anything Scorpius had learned from his father, its was that reparations could be made and apologies professed and actions repented, even, but the memory never left. Nobody forgot.

"Really rather you didn't," He said again, and went for his pants, then his trousers.

"I don't have time for a quickie before class, you idiot, and I'm starving."

And she left.

* * *

><p>AN: now, I'm thinking this is a oneshot, but if people like it enough and YOU REVIEW,* then perhaps I will write another chapter. I'll have to see where it goes, I have absolutely nowhere planned, and I really wrote this to see if I could do it, because I have another fic where the whole plot is put into motion by a one off. Well, I did, and then I changed it, and I actually forget the original direction. So yeah. But did you notice, that bit at the end could be sarcastic or wistful? which do you think it was? And as this was a test-the-waters-can-I-do-it fic, suggestions are huge for me. Don't even worry about offending me. Its NEVER gonna happen.<p>

You may have noticed I've grown up a little in my writing (I really hope) and I usually plan further ahead…I'm hopefully going to post a lot in the next six months, not that I have time to with my insane classes, but I probably have 15 or so fics funning around my head, both oneshots and multichaps…If you want me to post, or post more quickly, my best motivators in the world are geeky/literature quotes and emails.

*I've learned you have to beg for them, apparently, and so this is me. Toss me a bone, will ya. Anything you thought, heck, if you feel the need, PLEASE FLAME. I've got no issues with it, all feedback is good feedback. anything you thought, or didn't think…please say hello…I'm a lonely email junkie, I love you guys in my inbox.


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